A Shout

Many springs have passed, I haven’t recited in ‘dh’
or played poetry’s music, or found it entertaining,
or listened to that wisdom, once chanted to its melody.
If you have Somali blood, this situation’s hard to endure.
This is how I’ve I suffered, unnoticed by others.
But today there’s an unbearable noise; catastrophe’s cacophony.
Doctors have been massacred, the cream of Somalis.
Damn those who shed the blood, who spilt Caddow’s marrow,
who callously killed Qamar, dear to us all,
who have broken these young ones, backbone of our nation.
The tears overflow, the trees and sky are weeping.
Killers of children, what have you gained?
This is not a simple incident, it sets Somalis aflame.
Heavy are the groans, the hurt cannot be healed.
The corpses are scattered, the dead neglected,
littles ones left there, gazing aghast,
women are lost, adrift in deep anguish.
If you saw the scene, you’d be sleepless for nights.
Wherever you look, the heart flees in agony.
Like ongoing migration, this burdens my mind.
How the boats take bodies, to perilous ends,
to die in high sea – I constantly worry.
What has become of us? Perpetual anxiety.
They scorn our religion. They shatter my mind.
O Mogadishu, I’m weak with your suffering.
O Mogadishu, I’m blaming your boys.
O Mogadishu, hyenas attack who don’t know satiety,
O Mogadishu, your defenders failed you,
O Mogadishu, they scattered poisonous gum,
O Mogadishu, you are vandalised,
O Mogadishu, your heroes are gone.
Thugs and incompetents gather under the wisdom tree
and no plants are left, only useless dhira-dhabato.
Every day, from morning until night
we hear guns roar, the din of armoured cars,
the flash of ammunitions, lighting up the distance,
smoke pouring, loosed from double-barrelled guns,
weapons detonate, sent by colonial powers,
killing the young certainly, killing the vulnerable,
and the leaders we elected, they don’t seem angry,
more unwitting fools, unaware of reality.
Events seem trivial to some, until they actually hit home.
Let me stop, before I’m carried too far away.
I shouldn’t go any further, describing such horror
or I’ll sound like a hyena, scavenging in graveyards.
In this life, they say you should never give up.
I beg you then, I’ll pray and you say amen.
May Allah send us a man of courage, of truth,
who treats us equally, shares the milk fairly,
makes sure everyone gets some, their bowl full,
makes us understand peace, which is beyond price,
makes the scorched land recover, green over,
makes strong fences, to keep out the enemy,
who never falls for money, or material goods,
who isn’t craven, but would die for what he believes in,
who provides warm clothes, helps those shivering in cold,
through howling winds, through falling drizzle,
who lays strong foundations, so we can move forward,
who keeps the flag aloft, Allah we beseech you...
London, 2009